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“Anyone seen him yet?” Dick asked, as he landed on the street.
He straightened to look around the financial district, slightly unsettled by how eerily empty the streets were. No cars, no one walking. Heck, half the lights felt like they were out. It set Dick slightly on edge.
“No sightings here.” Stephanie’s voice came first.
“We haven’t found him yet either.” Tim said.
“Unfortunately, Drake is correct. We have yet to locate him.” Damian added.
“No names in the field, Robin.” Bruce rumbled.
Even with no progress, Dick still smiled. All groups were counted for. Steph and Cass, Tim and Damian, Bruce and Duke. Jason was out of town, so Dick didn’t have to worry about him. He felt a bit like a parent doing a head count, but he knew Bruce was doing the same. Both wanted to make sure none of their family were caught unaware by Clayface. Just hearing from them was good. It meant they were safe. Safe and sound and not in the middle of a fight with Clayface.
If Dick were being honest, he didn’t want any of them tangling with Basil. He was dangerous on a good day, tonight? Dick wasn’t sure what to expect. When he’d broken out of Arkham earlier that day it had been in a rage, and he’d injured four guards, put two of them in the hospital, and killed another one.
It had been hours now, and in the unlikely event the man had calmed down a bit, Dick was still wary.
“Nothing here for me either.” he said, pressing his comm.
He still had his finger on it as he rounded a corner on the street and came face to face with Clayface himself. Dick had one moment to register the fact that he’d been the one to make the discovery and then he was engulfed in clay, the substance crawling up his body.
Dick squirmed, fighting the hold, and trying to get one of his hands into a pocket to pull out a weapon of some kind. Then he was being squeezed. He felt a bit like one of those rubber toy’s whose eyes popped out when you squeezed them. The pressure was too much, and Dick couldn’t help but cry out.
The moment he opened his mouth, mud flooded in, cutting off his voice and making him want to gag. It pressed into him, forcing its way down his throat and actually setting off Dick’s gag reflex. He tried to vomit, his stomach and chest hitching with the movement, but he couldn’t move--the muscles in his throat fought against the pressure on the inside, and his body was screaming for air against the pressure holding him outside. Dick couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but choke.
Then he was flying clay and all into a wall. The clay made a kind of barrier, and Dick continued to struggle as his vision was growing spotty. The arm pulled him back and then immediately slammed him back into the wall, the clay against his back slithering away just in time to make his whole body slap against brick. Dick’s eyes rolled back as he heard glass shatter, and the world went black.
When he came to, Dick found himself on the ground in a puddle of mud and clay. His mouth was still clogged with clay, and as his senses return his first instinct was to retch. Mud spilled from his lips before he could even push himself up, and when he did he heaved clay out in sickening waves, throwing up until his eyes were wet with tears and his throat felt scrapped raw.
As he caught his breath, a million other pains came to him. His head was throbbing. It hurt so bad he’d have thrown up if he hadn’t just done that. He blinked tears away to see far more than ten fingers splayed under him, as the black of his gloves looked like they were melting into the ground.
“Nightwing!” Damian’s voice screamed.
It sounded distant, and Dick’s head shot up, he ignored the way it felt like his brains were sloshing around, and looked wildly for the source of his brother’s scream.
There! He saw Clayface’s hulking form turning around a corner. He couldn’t see Robin or Red Robin. Distantly he remembered they’d been halfway across the city, they wouldn’t be here right now.
But something was wrong. Robin had yelled for him. Damian had called out to him. Maybe he’d been out longer than he’d thought? Or--what if Clayface was going to go after them? After his whole family.
Dick couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let him hurt any of the people he cared about.
“Nightwing?” Bruce’s voice crackled in his ear, sounding concerned.
Dick wanted to tell him about the run in with Clayface, but fear gripped his chest at the thought of getting any of them involved. Better they stay far away searching fruitlessly. Dick could handle this. He’d keep them safe.
“All good.” he managed.
He tried to sit up and instead his head swam again forcing him to pause and just try to breathe through the pain. After a moment he shoved himself up to sit back on his heels. His world tilted, and Dick leaned back and back until his back bounced against the brick wall.
Exhaustion and pain warred for supremacy in him and Dick let his eyes flutter closed. Just for a moment. To make his world right again.
When he woke up the second time he was pretty sure he’d only been out for a few seconds, but that was enough to let Clayface get away. Dick pushed his hands backward against the brick and used it to steady him as he stood. He shifted his feet so they were a little more firmly planted and heard something crunch under one shoe.
Dick paused and leaned over to look at what had made the noise. By the toe of his boot there was a large piece of broken glass. It was strange, because instead of being flat like it was from a window, it was curled a bit. Dick couldn’t figure out why someone would curl glass on a street in the financial district. A blueish glint caught his eye making him look again. Blue liquid pooled in a still intact and slightly curled part. It couldn’t be blue though. It was probably water and a reflection off his suit.
He shook his head, putting off the strangeness to finish straightening. He was pressed against the wall still, but standing at last. Unfortunately, the movement was too much for his head again and the pounding was too much.
His stomach decided to rebel again, he couldn’t stop himself from leaning over to throw up again. He’d thought he’d cleared out all the clay he’d unwillingly ingested, but more ugly brown sludge spilled out of his throat and onto the ground, his stomach unrelenting.
When it was over at last Dick straightened, running the back of his hand across his face before he coughed. He felt sick. His head hurt so bad he wasn’t convinced Clayface hadn’t torn it open. He reached a hand out to press lightly around his scalp and yelped when his gloved fingers brushed against a bump in the back of his head.
When he pulled them around they were dotted with blood, but it didn’t seem like his skull really was cracked open, just busted a bit. Most definitely a concussion, but Dick didn’t really have time to focus on that. Clayface was still on the loose. His family was still at risk. If any of them got hurt he didn’t know what he’d do.
He pushed himself away from the wall to legs that felt like gelatin. He wobbled and sucked in air between teeth so clenched his breathing sounded more like whistles than anything. His world was spinning again. He had to throw one hand back for a moment to steady himself again on the wall.
His other hand moved up to press against his forehead, “Stop, brain, just stop.”
It wasn’t even that bad. Just a bump. Just a head that felt like a marching band had invaded it and was stomping around at a mad pace. Dick took in another deep breath and steadied himself. He had to go. Had to keep his family safe.
At last, Dick got his legs moving, steadfastly ignoring his headache.
Now that he knew where Clayface had been recently, he could easily locate a trail of loose clay to follow. Clayface seemed in a hurry and was leaving more of himself on various objects than he might usually. Even with pain pounding behind his eyes, Dick could follow the trail pretty clearly.
As he moved, more aches presented themselves across his body. His back hurt, and his legs, and his head and well everything . A head wound shouldn’t present as aches in his back but then again, he had been thrown into a wall repeatedly. That probably had something to do with it.
Crashes from ahead of him spurned Dick’s feet. He crested a hill to find an overturned car in front of him. Dick slid to a stop beside it, worried someone might have been inside and was now trapped. He crouched down, with a hand on the side to to check for any passengers and found it empty. It was however, covered in clay.
While he was crouched, a strange tingling started in his legs. Like the skin was tight, even pressed against his uniform. He reached down to scratch at one calf. It didn’t help, and if anything the tingling felt a bit worse.
Dick straightened and bit back a yelp, his back was not just aching, but on fire. Like it had been compressed and wanted to stretch or pop or something. He considered pausing to actually stretch, then heard another roar. Just within sight, he could see Clayface throwing another car. Something yellow, like the underside of Robin’s cape flapped close to him, and Dick thought his heart was about to stop.
Damian? What was he doing here? Was Tim around too? What was Clayface doing to them?
His back forgotten, Dick bolted for Clayface. Every step sent shudders up his legs, but he ignored the growing discomfort in favor of making sure his family was okay.
He caught up with Clayface as the man was about to start climbing a building. Dick threw a handful of wingdings at him. The missed wildly as something in his arm twinged and pulled.
They did clink against the side of the building and grab Clayface’s attention. The man spun as Dick dropped into a fighting stance. He did his best to ignore the way his back now wanted to twist, and the tingling was in his arms. It hurt , but his focus wasn't on himself.
Dick hadn’t caught sight of Damian or Tim yet, but he knew they were there. Clayface was just hiding them. Somewhere. And Dick had to save them.
“Where are they?” he demanded, pulling his escarma sticks off his back.
Clayface spun and roared at him, flinging a huge burst of clay in his direction. Dick jumped out of the way, ready to spin and move forward. Instead he yelped as his back screamed, and his knees started to buckle. His body felt like it was trying to twist and change, he didn’t know why that word stuck in his brain, but it did, especially as his back arched and he yelled again.
He could see Clayface coming for him again, and Dick tried to run, just move out of the way but the concussion caught up with him then, and his vision spun. His stomach rejoined the cacophony of pain radiating through his body, and Dick thought he might be sick again.
A blast of clay hit him square in the chest and knocked him off his feet.
His back hurt like it was trying to tear itself out of him. His legs felt funny, tight and itchy and--Everything that was Dick Grayson felt uncomfortable .
He wanted to tear his skin off. The feeling was sudden and urgent, like if he didn’t do it now he’d die. He was afraid he’d die anyway. His fingers tore at his arms, digging at the fabric of his uniform in an attempt to get it to move, to get the skin off, to make the tightness stop. It was like someone had vacuum sealed his skin to his bones and he wanted to scream.
Then his back and legs pulled . There was no better word for it. It was like they were growing. His back like a spider trapped under his skin, his legs sticks too long and shoved in a balloon stretching and stretching until it might pop.
He writhed on the ground, his legs kicking out for some relief, back arching and twisting to make the pain stop for just one second. He wanted it to stop for just a second so he could breathe. So he could think.
He heard Clayface laughing over him.
“Must be the medicine.” he rumbled, “Didn’t think it’d affect you like that. Still. Saves me time.”
“Where--” Dick ground out, not really caring about the man’s ramblings, his brain latching onto the whole reason he was still here, “Where’s Robin?”
“Dunno.” Clayface said, and lifted Dick by one of his ankles.
If Dick thought laying there had been disorienting, being held upside down was down right horrible. Blood rushed to his head, and his stomach already teetering on the brink of being sick again twisted painfully. His leg, with all his weight on it felt best out of anything, stretched the way the rest of his body wanted to.
His mind was focused on his bones. And his skin. And everything that felt like it was pulling . He was too tight. Everything was too tight. He couldn’t breathe--then what breath he had left was gone as he was flying through the air again. He landed with a heavy oof onto the ground and any oxygen still in him was gone as he gasped.
“Touch him again and I’ll kill you!”
That voice was familiar, but Dick didn’t know why. He forgot about it as one of his arms spasmed, and the tightness increased. Dick yelled, gasping in pain. He twisted, curling in on himself and prayed it would stop. He wanted whatever was happening to stop.
Noise filled the air around him, but Dick didn’t care. He squished his hands over his ears and pressed his eyes closed and whimpered. It hurt. It hurt .
He bit down on his tongue to keep himself from reaching out to itch, and then he dropped his hands anyway just away from his skull to dig at his cheeks, in a desperate attempt to free himself from the horrible suffocating feeling of skin that was too tight. For one blessed moment he felt relief as he scratched and felt blood warm his skin.
“Nightwing!” a voice came from right in front of him.
Dick peeled his eyes open to see Robin standing above him. For one heartbeat he was relieved. Damian was fine. Damian was alive . Then he saw the blood on the boy’s head, and a dark stain on his uniform and Dick wailed, fingers digging deeper into his cheeks.
Damian dropped to his knees, mouth open wide. He was yelling something, his green gloved hands grabbing Dick’s and tearing them off his face.
He fought the boy’s grip, twisting his hands until Damian let go, and tried to pull himself up. His body did not want to do that. Everything ached. But he needed, he needed, he--
“Damian?”
“Red Robin, get Father, Nightwing is severely compromised and I will need help carrying him. Possibly infected with a foreign agent.”
“Damian!” Dick cried, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” he was crying, and unlike the rest of his body, the tears didn’t hurt.
“Nightwing, calm down.” Damian said, kneeling beside him.
But Dick couldn’t. Damian was there, but Damian was gone. The blood, the stain. The gaping hole in his chest. Dick had been too late. Too late to save his brother from Clayface. Too late to stop the blade piercing his skin. Too late to protect his family. Too late to do anything.
“I’m sorry.” he sobbed again, “I failed. You died and it’s my fault.”
“Richard.” Damian’s voice sounded heartbroken, he looked like he wanted to say something then swallowed, “I never blamed you.”
Damian was speaking like it had happened in the past. But no. Hadn’t it just happened? Hadn’t Dick just woken up to find Damian dead on the ground, surrounded by his blood?
He leaned forward to refute Damian’s words then gasped as his back twisted again, one leg kicking out.
Damian just dodged the kick, and reached out to take Dick’s hands again. He’d started scratching at his arms. Damian held them tightly in his, and Dick wondered if maybe he’d died too. Ghosts couldn’t touch the living after all.
“It is going to be okay.” Damian consoled, “We are going to get you home.”
Home. Yes. Dick could go home with Damian.
That warm thought lasted a moment before Dick remembered Bruce.
His face screwed into another sob that turned into a wail and he fought again at Damian’s hands.
“No!” he yelled, “Bruce! Who will tell him?! He can’t--He can’t--Damian!”
Bruce couldn’t stand to lose both Dick and Damian. Couldn’t stand to lose Damian again. Bruce shouldn’t have to lose another child ever. He--he--Dick jerked as a hand slapped over his mouth. His attention flew to Damian who yanked his hand back like it was on fire.
“I’m sorry, you were screaming, and we need to go.”
Dick didn’t have time to figure that out as his brother tugged one of his arms up and over his shoulders. He dropped Dick’s other hand to support his back, and help hoist him up then to his feet.
His whole world titled again when he stood, and Dick stopped thinking about anything but Damian’s voice in his ear. He didn’t know what his brother was saying, but Dick wasn’t worried anymore. Damian had him, and if Damian had him then things would be okay. Things would be fine because he was with his brother.
~
When Dick came to, his first thought was that he’d been passing out a lot lately. His second was the realization that his body no longer seemed to be trying to outgrow itself. He still hurt, his body ached lightly, like the second day of soreness after a good workout. His head ached, but it wasn’t the overwhelming feeling it had been when he’d last been conscious.
He shifted, and actually looked around himself instead of at the stalactites hanging from the ceiling of the cave. Dick turned his head and found Bruce watching him carefully. Dick’s heart sped up seeing him, his brain trying to remind him of a crucial fact.
Bruce. Bruce was here. Dick was supposed to tell Bruce something.
Damian.
Dick’s heart really picked up, and a monitor next to him he must have already tuned out started going crazy.
Bruce’s face dropped into a frown and he leaned forward, eyebrows knit together, “Dick, Chum, what’s wrong?”
“Damian--” Dick’s voice broke, “Damian he’s.”
He couldn’t get the word out. Couldn’t say dead . But he was. Dick could clearly see his baby brother in his mind’s eye, his chest coated in blood, with more streaming down his head. Killed by Clayface.
And Bruce didn’t look like he knew. How could he not know? This was Damian . Damian, Robin. His son. Dick’s little boy. He’d been there. If Dick had come home someone had to have seen him. Brought him home at least. Dick’s heart broke imagining him left, all alone.
Thumbs brushing right under his eyes made Dick flinch in surprise. Bruce had reached out to wipe away tears. Dick was crying and of course he would be his boy was gone.
“Do you want to see Damian? We’ll call him over here.”
Dick blinked, dropping more tears, “What?”
Bruce turned over his shoulder, “Al, will you get Damian and let him know Dick is awake?”
Dick squirmed, “Bruce this isn’t funny.”
Anger started to warm his stomach, like embers just waiting for the right burst of air.
“I’m not joking, Sweetheart. Damian’s fine. I sent him upstairs to get some food because he’s spent the whole day down here.”
He didn’t understand. He’d seen Damian dead. Seen--what had Dick seen?
“Bruce? What’s going on? What happened?” he was confused, and his head hurt.
Bruce’s hands dropped from Dick’s eyes, to brush whisper soft against Dick’s cheek. He realized they were both stinging. He reached a hand of his own up and felt scabs over scratches.
“You were very ill when we found you, and I think you got some things confused.”
“Ill?” Dick asked, before breaking into a series of coughs, he was still terribly thirsty, and all this conversation reminded him his throat had been full of clay recently, and there were flecks of it itching at the back of it.
“Here.” Bruce handed Dick a glass.
He pushed himself up to sit up, and took it gratefully and downed the whole thing, washing away dryness and some remaining grit clinging to the back of his throat. Dick settled it on the cart beside his bed.
“What’s this?” Dick asked, lightly taking the line for the IV in his fingers, green liquid the color of Damian’s eyes was flowing through it.
“Don’t play with that.” Bruce rumbled, “It’s the antidote.”
“For my illness?” Dick frowned.
“You came in contact with an experimental drug Clayface had stolen, that paired with some of his particles still inside you made for an almost deadly reaction.”
The strange tightness and pulling in his body came back to mind, “That’s why my body felt like it was changing?”
Bruce hummed, “You hallucinated pretty badly for a while after we got you back.”
Just then, Damian came into view behind Bruce, and Dick couldn’t breathe. His brother was there, running towards him, with a bandage on his head but looked otherwise fine.
Damian barreled to the cot and then froze, suddenly shy.
“Richard.” he said, voice small, hopeful, “You have awoken.”
“Damian.” Dick said again, breathless, “You’re alive.”
His brother shot a look at Bruce that said ‘I told you so’. Then both of them turned to Dick.
Damian was fine. And Dick had been sick. Damian hadn’t died. Dick felt tears heating his eyes again and he let them spill over in relief. His brother was okay. He reached out for Damian, and the boy inched forward, to lock fingers with him.
Dick tugged, not just wanting to see him but hold him, “Up?”
He expected Damian to roll his eyes or scoff, but the boy didn’t even hesitate to climb up and immediately bury himself in Dick’s side, his arms wrapping around Dick’s torso, head tucked onto his chest.
Dick held him back, and pressed a kiss into his hair, his heart finally settling down.
Beside them, he heard Bruce chuckle. Dick looked up quizzical.
“I had to order him out of your bed yesterday, and he told me as he stomped away that he’d be back.”
“I was correct.” Damian said, voice muffled by Dick’s chest.
Dick chuckled, and reached one hand up to brush through Damian’s hair, “Yesterday?”
“You have been in and out of consciousness for three days.” Damian answered, squeezing him.
Bruce nodded his confirmation, “You don’t remember it?”
Dick shook his head, fingers tangling in Damian’s impossibly soft locks, “Last thing I remember is Dames here hauling me to my feet.” he left out the part about thinking he might have been dead too.
“That’s probably for the best.” Bruce told him, and stood, “I’m going to let the others know you’re awake and bring you down something to eat. I trust Damian to keep you from getting up for now.”
“I am an excellent deterrent.” Damian declared.
Dick chuckled, “You are.”
When Bruce had left, Dick continued to run his fingers through Damian’s hair content to know the kid was here, and fine, and feel his chest moving gently with every breath.
“Hey." Dick said, getting Damian's attention, “Thanks for helping save me.”
The boy twisted one of his hands in Dick’s shirt, “Tt with no help from you. You never answered me back.” there was a slight warble to his voice, “When I called you didn’t answer and then Timothy and I had to find you curled in that street half dead with your body just about to explode.”
“I don’t think I was at the point of exploding.” Dick told him, though he thought he might have been closer than he’d care to admit, he had been out for three days.
“You do not realize how close you were.” Damian whispered, “You almost died, Richard. Father thought you might end up paralyzed. All because you did not tell m-us. Why did you not report something?”
Damian’s voice had gone from angry to legitimately hurt, and he wasn’t even trying to hide it. Dick could feel a bit of wetness by Damian’s eye where he was pressed close to his chest.
“Oh, Sweetest.” Dick said, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I thought, well I thought Clayface was after you and Tim. I heard your voice and I got things all mixed up, thought you were closer than you were.”
Damian huffed, but the answer seemed satisfactory enough to him. At last he ducked his head, and nuzzled closer to Dick, “I suppose that is understandable, but you must never do that to me again.”
Dick squeezed him back, “I don’t plan on it.”